


Don't Walk Alone Down the Streets of Philadelphia

by bethfrish



Category: 1776 (1972)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-12-28
Updated: 2004-12-28
Packaged: 2018-02-21 12:15:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2467952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bethfrish/pseuds/bethfrish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Congress mainly enjoys drinking rum and playing mind games.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Walk Alone Down the Streets of Philadelphia

The Second Continental Congress is perpetually split down the middle. Six yeas, six nays, one abstention. In reality, the deadlock is the result of twelve equally stubborn colonies, but Pennsylvania likes to believe that Pennsylvania is solely responsible for the historical standstill. 

Dickinson and Wilson speak for their colony while Franklin sleeps twenty feet behind them. Majority rules, and it will always be two against one. 

Six to six with one abstention. Seven against five and suddenly everything falls apart. But the South is holding to its principles and the middle colonies aren't going anywhere. Not Maryland. Especially not Pennsylvania. 

Dickinson sits back down after talking for forty-five minutes straight and rests his arm on the back of Wilson's chair. Wilson smiles. Dickinson smirks. 

One swayed vote and everything crumbles. 

It'll never happen. 

Wilson can feel Dickinson's fingertips drumming against the back of his chair. He can almost hear his laugh inside his head. 

It'll never happen. 

  
  
  
  


One afternoon when half of Congress is absent, they take off in a carriage and ride twenty miles until they find a tavern that isn't just down the street. 

"Rum is not rum, James," Dickinson informs him, tossing his hat into the back of the carriage. "And don't ever let anybody tell you otherwise." 

Wilson follows him inside where it's dark and dingy and virtually deserted at three o'clock in the afternoon. Dickinson holds up two fingers at the barkeep as they sit down. The barkeep nods. 

"Nearly impossible to find anything that doesn't taste like river water," Dickinson mutters under his breath with grin, like it's some special secret between the two of them. Wilson leans forward against the table. 

Two rums are set down on the wood between them, foggy blurs of light reflected back in the pewter. Rum is all anyone ever drinks anymore. Wilson can't remember the last time he had a home-cooked meal. He realizes that he doesn't really miss it. 

Dickinson lifts his drink. "To John Adams," he says after a moment. "May his distasteful personality forever hinder his support." His eyes sparkle above the rim. They're very blue, even in the bad lighting. 

Wilson laughs, low in the silence. He drinks. 

  
  
  
  


"And what would we stand to gain by reconciliation, Dickinson? We extend our hand and Britain will stick a knife in it." 

"What do we stand to gain by _treason_ , Dr. Franklin?" 

"Oh stop calling it that when you know—" 

"And what would you call waging war against the country that bore us? Because James and I certainly consider that the very definition of the word itself. Don't we, James." 

"Well—" 

"Precisely my point." 

"Actually, I—" 

"And furthermore, Dr. Franklin, it doesn't matter what _you_ think. When last I checked, you were outnumbered two to one. If you like, I shall perform a recount. James?" 

"You know that I—" 

"And indeed, two to one it remains." 

"Oh for heaven's sake. I can't have this conversation." 

"That's right, Franklin. Run back to your pitiful little brigade of rebels. James and I will worry about the pride and dignity of Pennsylvania. And don't think I don't know what that look means." 

  
  
  
  


Wilson hasn't been home in seven weeks, despite the fact that his journey is the shortest of all the delegates. He has an apartment eight blocks away from the State House, one in a ripple of congressmen scattered around the perimeter of Philadelphia. 

Dickinson's housing is a block and a half south of his. When Congress first started meeting, Dickinson would pick Wilson up in his carriage and they would ride in together, discussing law and politics, independence and treason. They'd walk in, one after the other. Sit together at their designated table when Congress convened, Dickinson inching his chair over so that there was no room for Franklin, who refused to sit with them anyway. 

One night Wilson got so intoxicated at the local tavern that Dickinson and Rutledge had to carry him out with his arms draped over their shoulders. He woke up the next morning sprawled out on Dickinson's sofa, hangover-induced headache threatening to crack his head open. He watched blearily as Dickinson readied himself to go out, then promptly passed back out the minute the door shut. 

When he woke up again it was half past seven and Dickinson was writing a letter at his desk. "James!" he exclaimed when Wilson sat up and tried to smooth out his clothes. Then he sat down on the sofa next to him and proceeded to feverishly tell him all that was discussed in Congress that day. 

  
  
  
  


It's somewhere around eighty-seven degrees and Adams is talking up a storm, waving his hands around and banging his walking stick against things to emphasize his point. 

Dickinson leans sideways and puts his mouth by Wilson's ear. "As if this room needs any more hot air." 

Adams turns around and glares at them both. "Eyes in the back of his head," Wilson mumbles. 

"Did you have something to say, Judge Wilson?" Adams demands, waving his cane around in front of him. "As much as I'd welcome your opinion, your words would fall on deaf ears as we would all be dead from the shock!" 

Dickinson leans back in his chair and tilts his head in concern. "Come now, Mr. Adams. You know, as well as I do, the opinions of every man in this Congress." 

Adams hovers over their desk, squinting first at Wilson and then at Dickinson. "Indeed I do. Which is why I cannot comprehend," he continues, boring holes into Wilson's forehead, "why a self-proclaimed advocate of independence continues to hide behind the cheap veils of indecisiveness and hypocrisy!" 

"We surely have no idea who you're talking about," says Dickinson coolly. 

Wilson gives a small cough and shifts in his seat. "While I am aware of the benefits of declaring independence," he says quietly, "I do not find it prudent at this time to vote against the wills of my fellow statesmen." 

Adams laughs humorlessly. "I see. Though it is obvious to one and all that what you _mean_ to say is that you will not vote against the will of the man who has you by the collar." 

Dickinson bustles in his seat. "Gentlemen, the accusations this man throws around! James is free to do as he wishes. Tell them, James." 

Under the table Wilson feels something brush up against his knee and realizes that it's Dickinson's hand, moving slowly behind the tablecloth where no one else can see it. 

"James…" 

"Yes." Wilson lifts his chin and looks Adams straight in the eye. "I am nobody's to command." 

Adams sneers and moves away from their table, and when Wilson leans back against his chair the hand on his knee is gone. 

  
  
  
  


Every so often Wilson and Dickinson go out for drinks in the evening. Sometimes with other members of Congress, sometimes alone. It wasn't long before Wilson got into the habit of falling asleep on Dickinson's sofa. Usually it was because he felt justifiably drunk enough not to walk the extra block back home. Sometimes it was because he just didn't feel like going back. 

Dickinson's sofa is about six inches too short for Wilson to lie on without having to contort some part of his body. It only made sense they should take advantage of a bed big enough for two. 

Dickinson has the right side and Wilson takes the left. He prefers it that way because then he can stare out the window as he tries to fall asleep. 

Dickinson is always the first to go. Sometimes Wilson faces inward and watches Dickinson instead. 

Wilson hasn't slept in his own apartment in seven weeks. He wakes up in the morning and it's Dickinson's sheets that are pulled up around his shoulders, Dickinson's weight that's countering his in the mattress. 

They ride into Congress together and nobody thinks anything of it because there's nothing to think about. Their apartments are a block away from each other. They've known each other for years. 

Besides, Wilson tells himself, all they're doing is sleeping. 

  
  
  
  


"Now isn't this the best?" 

"What is?" 

"The _rum_ , James. We're sitting drinking rum. What on earth did you think I was talking about?" 

"I don't know. The weather?" 

"The weather." 

"Well." 

"It's raining out." 

"It's not stiflingly hot." 

"You have a point." 

"Do I?" 

"Yes, James. Why are you looking at me like that?" 

"I don't know." 

"…Drink your rum." 

"It's good." 

"That it is." 

  
  
  
  


Hancock calls a twenty-minute recess and is out the door while his words are still lingering around his desk. Everyone is edgier than they've been all week, and this time it has nothing to do with the heat. Jefferson's Declaration has already undergone seventeen changes and there's no visible no end in sight. The minute one matter is settled another hand cuts through the air, and by the time his issue is addressed, the man before him has thought of another one. 

Dickinson rises and heads out to breathe something other than interparty tension. Wilson moves to follow but suddenly he's cornered by Jefferson himself. At first he thinks that maybe Jefferson is addressing someone else, because he isn't entirely sure they've even spoken to each other before, but when he looks up Jefferson is staring him straight in the eye and there can't be any confusion as to who he's talking to. 

"What do you _really_ think, Mr. Wilson?" Jefferson asks, making his advantage in height intimidatingly apparent. 

Wilson suddenly becomes very interested in his desk. "About what?" There are a few doodles on some of Dickinson's papers. Tiny stick figures with minutely scrawled captions. 

Jefferson frowns. "About what. You know very well about what." He continues talking before Wilson has a chance to form an answer. "Why do you follow Dickinson around like a lost child when you don't even agree with what he supports?" 

"I have said before—" 

"You have said before," Jefferson repeats impatiently, "that you do not wish to vote against the wills of your fellow statesmen. Well your fellow statesmen themselves cannot— _will_ not—agree on any one stance!" He breathes in slowly and looks down at Wilson. "You will never please everyone. Why not just vote for yourself?" 

"James!" Dickinson is in the doorway, smirking at the two of them as they hold court. "I turn around and you're no longer behind me." He raises an eyebrow at Jefferson before setting his crooked grin back on Wilson. "Letting the enemy slip poison into your ear while you sleep?" 

"I'm coming, John." Wilson moves around Jefferson but then pauses. "It's not as simple as you think," he tells him quietly, staring straight ahead. 

Jefferson purses his lips. "No, I'm sure it isn't," he decides, but Wilson's retreating back is his only audience. 

  
  
  
  


Most of the time, Wilson is silent during Congress. Dickinson talks enough for the entire colony of Pennsylvania, and Wilson stopped trying to second people's motions long ago. 

Sometimes he goes the entire day without saying anything at all, and after four hours his mind begins to wander, his body goes limp in the chair, and his eyes become blank and unfocused. Other times he follows the debates with a look of perpetual anxiety etched on his face, too afraid to speak because he doesn't want to get sucked into an argument he can't pull himself out of. 

At least once a day he catches himself watching Dickinson, completely entranced by the way the man speaks, the way he thinks, the way he moves. He's hypnotized by the angry flash in his eyes as he argues his point, blue irises shadowed black when he narrows them into calculating slits. 

Before Dickinson sits back down he always gives Wilson a little smile. Tiny lift in the corner of his mouth that says _how'd you like that, James?_

Sometimes when they're sitting at the table together, Wilson pretends that Dickinson is watching him. It makes him feel alert and self-conscious, and suddenly he can see every movement of his body like he's outside himself. When Dickinson has his arm of the back of his chair, Wilson tips his head back, so slowly and so carefully that he can't even feel it moving, until he thinks his hair must be brushing against Dickinson's sleeve. He pretends that Dickinson's fingers are barely grazing his neck, running over the tiny hairs with his fingertips. He's gotten so good at pretending that the one time it actually happened, he almost didn't notice. 

Most of the time he sits and listens while Dickinson's voice swallows the room whole. It reminds Wilson of when he began studying law, alone in a room with papers and books, and Dickinson watching him from across the table. 

  
  
  
  


"John?" 

"What." 

"…Nothing." 

" _What_." 

"Never mind." 

"…" 

"…" 

"Come here for a second and tell me what you think of this." 

"Of course." 

  
  
  
  


Wilson's sorting through a handful of pamphlets that he picked up around town, head back against Dickinson's sofa cushions. Across the room Dickinson is squinting angrily at a piece of paper, writing lines at a time and then scratching them out in the same breath. 

Wilson lifts his head and puts the pamphlets down on the table. "What are you doing, John?" 

Dickinson doesn't look up. "Nothing of any importance." 

"Can I…assist in any way?" 

"No," Dickinson mumbles into the table. "You go back to your reading. Or whatever it was you were doing." 

Wilson stands up just as Dickinson lets out a grunt of frustration and throws his quill down on the desk. He rocks back in his chair, knocking the waistcoat that was hanging on the back of it to the ground. 

Wilson crosses the room and picks it up, dusting off the dirt from the floor. "Here," he says, draping it back over the back of the chair. But instead of stepping back and returning to the sofa he lingers there, hovering above Dickinson's shoulders, Dickinson tense and frustrated. He wants to help, wants to do something, and what he should really do is just sit back down, but his fingers are sliding along the curve of Dickinson's neck, brushing the soft hairs by the ribbon at his nape. And when Dickinson turns to look at him, he leans down and kisses him on the side of the mouth. 

And for a split second it feels like perfection, like independence and reconciliation, like the absolute end of the world until, "James…" 

Dickinson's hand is on his shoulder, not quite pushing against him but Wilson understands the gesture. "We are two _men_ , James." 

"I…of course. I'm terribly sorry, John. I…I don't know what came over me." 

They watch each other in silence for a second, Wilson's voice stuck somewhere inside his throat. Dickinson curves a hand around his shoulder. "It's forgotten." 

They still sleep in the same bed that night, and as Wilson stares out the window and into the night, he thinks he can feel Dickinson's breath against the back of his neck. 

  
  
  
  


It was the eighth time Dickinson took him to the tavern twenty miles away that Wilson realized he had been there before, maybe five years earlier. 

He vaguely remembered not particularly enjoying their rum, and concluded that they must have changed the recipe since then. 

He never goes back a ninth time to find out for sure. 

  
  
  
  


Wilson can tell that Dickinson doesn't know it's coming, even after Franklin moves that the delegation be polled. One yea, one nay, and Dickinson turns away from them both, confident of the echo that will render this whole convention a fourteen-month waste of time. 

Wilson's eyes dart back and forth between Franklin's stony expression and Dickinson's back, finally locking onto some invisible speck on the far wall when he realizes that neither one can help him. He's paralyzed, caught in a web of what he wants to do, what he needs to do, and what he's afraid to do. 

He slowly begins to rationalize out loud, embarrassed, but he can't stop himself. And it starts to makes sense. Little by little. It makes sense and he knows the way this has to end. He thinks that maybe he always has. 

Dickinson turns. "James…" he whispers, pleading with a million promises that he never intends to keep. 

Wilson shakes his head. "No, John. Not this time," and he doesn't care how incriminating that sounds because in a second it'll all be over anyway. Pennsylvania says yea, and while the rest of Congress freezes in a state of catatonic shock, Wilson watches the waves of betrayal pass over Dickinson's face. Frustration, hurt, maybe even regret. Wilson looks down at his lap. 

"So," Dickinson spits into the silence, and lets forth a flood of angry accusations that reach Wilson's ears as nothing more than a deafening rush of air. He meets Dickinson's gaze for a second, but the fire in his eyes and the sneer across his lips is too much. He turns away, and he doesn't look back until Dickinson disappears through the door, prideful exit that for once he isn't expected to follow. 

Thomson calls the delegates up one at a time, quill passed along from hand to hand as they sign their names away to history. Somewhere inside Wilson's chest, there's a dull pain that sharpens and twists as he puts the tip to the paper. 

  
  
  
  


It's late in the day, so he doesn't think that Dickinson will still be there by the time he stops by to get his clothes, but he is, pacing back and forth across the room as he piles his belongings into a suitcase. 

"Give the key back to the landlord," Dickinson says without looking up from his dresser. He doesn't say anything else, and the only sound in the room is the soft, lonely rustle of shirts being folded. 

"I'm sorry, John," Wilson tells him softly. 

Dickinson still doesn't look up. "Your clothes are on that chair over there." He continues packing and only lifts his head after his bag snaps shut. 

"John," Wilson begins as Dickinson picks his hat up off the bed and heads for the door. 

Dickinson stops in front of him and slowly lowers his suitcase to the ground. "You surprised me, James," he says, face carefully void of expression. 

Wilson swallows. Dickinson's arm across his shoulders, Dickinson's fingers in his hair. Hand on his knee, breath in his ear. Sleepy grin in the morning when they wake up. None of this was ever real, he thinks. He can't let this continue when the hollow clack of Pennsylvania's block sliding to the other side already ended it. "Goodbye, John." 

Dickinson tilts his head, and for a second he looks like he's going to laugh, but it passes and his face goes blank. "Goodbye," he whispers, then kisses Wilson on the mouth. 

When he pulls away, he picks his suitcase up off the ground and walks through the doorway without looking back. Wilson stands there, frozen, and when the door slams behind him, it's a lot less confident than he wants it to sound. 


End file.
